Beauty
by dev0ured
Summary: A short snippet into the life of a teenage Severus Snape. Rated M for violence.


Beauty

He sat in the corner of the dank room, watching the moonlight shine through the grime-covered window, the light scattering around the small area. The light didn't reach him. It never did.

He peered around through a screen of his greasy black hair, his dark eyes impenetrable. His thoughts were almost undecipherable, and if it weren't for the traces of a feral sneer on his face, it too, would remain unreadable.

The sounds of yelling and screaming reached his ears, and he turned his empty gaze to the dark door, not even noticing the scratches that marred the once red painted wood.

That damn door. He fixated himself on noting every detail on what he had christened 'That Damn Door'.

He idly registered the lumbering footsteps of the cowardly man, as he climbed the stairs outside in the hall. He heard the man stumble, the sounds of sobbing reaching his ears from down the stairs, where he knew the pathetic woman cowered, knowing she would be trying to cry as silently as she could.

Loud noises angered the man, who lashed out like a startled animal in pain. That was a lesson he had learnt when he had been small, barely big enough for his head to clear the cheap, battered table that resided in the kitchen.

He heard the rasping breath of the man, knowing that the moment he cleared the stairs he would throw the door open, flinging it back on its hinges.

He noted the small hole in the wall where the knob of the door had indented it too many times for him to count.

Right on cue, the door blew open, air whistling through the musty air of his prison. As the man neared, the stench of cheap shots and a smell he had come to associate with dank bars filled with dirty old men, reached him, clouding his senses with an almost primal fear. He fought the urge to try to run, knowing that the man would simply roar with anger and swing him around like a rag doll. Even drunk to the point of reaching a comatose state, the man had a brute strength to put a bear to shame.

He closed his eyes, just seconds before the first blow fell. He kept them closed, not daring to make a noise, to move, or even take a breath. Blow after blow fell on his sickly thin frame, and he closed his eyes to try to escape.

He distanced himself from the pain, the fear that he_ wouldn't stop_, or that he'd hit _too hard_, almost overwhelming him.

He bit down hard on his lip, drawing blood, as the man, with the last of his strength smashed his hammy fist into his face. He felt the crunch of bone, and an excruciating pain as the fragile bones in his nose shattered, that he almost cried out. Almost.

The man spat at the ground in front of him, where he had fallen into a heap. He didn't care, the pain rolling in waves, as unmerciful and constant as the ocean.

The blood dripped from his face, running over his cheeks, over his lips, down his chin and onto a small puddle on the floor. He didn't dare breathe through his nose, and settled to small gasping breaths through his mouth. He could taste the blood, the coppery tang on his tongue, trying desperately to ignore the thick substance that coated his mouth and face.

He heard soft shuffling footsteps, and knew that the woman was there. She grabbed his arm, not caring when he hissed in pain as her strong fingers curled over a large mottled bruise. The man had retreated to his room, and he could hear him snoring.

He felt disgust, deep and everlasting, and knew that the man would always haunt him. No matter where he ran or disappeared to.

The woman pulled him along, dragging him through the dirty, dark house. Maybe once, the house had been happy, but he couldn't recall a time in his short life where anyone had laughed with happiness, or smiled kindly in this hovel.

She continued to pull him along, and he turned his face to her. The woman was thin, _too thin, _he thought abstractedly.

She had a bruise on her cheek, where the man had slapped her. He knew she would have many more injuries, hidden by her dirty long sleeved dress.

She had never been happy either. Even her dress, which might have once been bright and cheerful, held the taint of age and despair. It was faded, with patches where it had obviously torn and the woman had tried to fix it. There was a tear on the neckline, and he recalled an instance when the man had grabbed it in his fist and dragged her through the house, only to throw her into the basement.

The man had left her there for a whole day.

He watched as the woman dragged him into the kitchen. They slipped into their normal routine, and no words passed between them. She ran a towel under the tap, and he remembered when he was ten and the towel had been white, and soft. Now it was grey and thin, with evident signs of wear.

She rubbed the blood off his face, none too gently, but he didn't make a noise. He focussed his intense stare into the cabinet in front of him, noticed the cabinet door hanging off one hinge, the chipped, cheap white plates almost luminescent in the dark.

She wiped the last of the blood off his face, placing the towel by the sink. He looked at the towel critically, noticing the red smeared all over it, like paint. She turned and limped out of the room, and he remembered that she'd limped ever since that man had pushed her down the stairs and her leg had broken.

He remembered how it had twisted at the wrong angle, the bone visible against the skin. She had to go to the hospital, but the damage was so great that the doctors had told her to see a specialist to try and fix the bone.

The man had shouted, and gotten angry, before flat out refusing, expressing his desire to not waste any money on a worthless, snivelling woman. So her leg never fully healed, and in the winter, when it got cold, she would be in pain, the cold seeping into her bone. Once it had been so bad she couldn't mover her leg for a week.

He turned back to gaze at the blood stained towel, before he gingerly took a step forward. He winced slightly as his movement pulled the skin tight against a large black bruise on his side.

He grabbed it, heedless of the blood, and turned the tap. He watched as the red mixed with the water, flowing down the drain in a steady stream. He still didn't dare breathe through his nose, and settled instead for drawing in large gulps of air through his mouth.

He looked out the window as the last of the red left the towel, and he watched the moon slowly track along the sky.

She was beautiful, and he couldn't help but imagine what life would be like if beauty like that was ever present in his life. Maybe things would be different.

Or maybe the ugly things would still keep the beauty at bay.

The boy breathed in through his mouth once again, large, mournful eyes gazing at the moon. He found he couldn't hate her for her beauty, and instead he loved her more for it. The hope she instilled hurt him, letting him down with false promises that no one had made.

Still, he would rather feel the fresh sting of betrayal at the false hope than to live without hope at all.


End file.
